Slant (36 page)

/ S L A N T 223

She's saved this for last and it has the desired effect on Nussbaum. He sits straight up in his chair. "Why?"

"She was almost killed at a party last night. She plugged into a Yox with a man named Minstrel. New interface, full spinal, beta but not radical work... A party promotion. Someone didn't show up and she substituted as

a favor for a colleague. A paid favor."

"Was it porn?"

Mary blinks. This is stunningly irrelevant. "I don't know. The program, a Yox, was switched or scrambled, nobody knows by who or what. They reacted as if strapped into hellcrowns, and the man named Minstrel died. Someone at the party pulled off Grale's interface before it could kill her, but she spent at least twenty seconds--"

"Yeah," Nussbaum interrupts. His distaste is apparent; hellcrowning, however it is done, makes any public defender feel sick in the pit of the stomach.

"Comm and homicide teams from Eastside are investigating the death. I've linked it with the Crest investigation.., in its extended form. I think someone wanted to kill her in case Crest said anything indiscreet while they were alone."

Nussbaum runs his ringer over the flat surface of his pad. "I thought you

were going to do this on your own."

"You want to know, sir."

"The hell I do. It doesn't make my life any easier." Nussbaum stands. "I'm taking this to Federal, but I have to go through the state bureau. Are you flying to Green Idaho?"

"Yes," Mary says. "In about an hour."

"I may have to pull you back if Federal takes it over."

"Yes, sir."

"Where's Alice Grale now?"

"She's staying in my apt. I've cut off all the apt's fibe links and put two of your fifth-ranks in there to guard her."

"You're not keeping her in police custody, because we can't shut down our

ribes. You think someone's going to hack through to get her?" "It's very possible, sir." "What sort of someone?"

"Very clever and very persistent."

"Impossibly clever. These systems are not supposed to be breakable, even by God:" He bumps his desktop with the heel of his hand. "This someone

thinks Crest told Alice Grale something important."

Mary inclines.

Nussbaum's direct gaze is startling: clear gray eyes, sharp and intelligent, in an otherwise weary and not very attractive face. Any PD must be a kind of artist, specking humanity in its most basic and primal nature. The strain on ideals and personal illusions can be shattering. "Did she do anything else to deserve this? Make some enemies, make somebody jealous?"

224 GREG BEAR

"Nice clean girl, hm? She just spread her legs at the wrong time. An occupational hazard, I suppose. I'll ask Federal to search for all instances of peculiar hackers. But what in hell does this have to do with Workers Inc?" "Maybe nothing, sir." "Keep in close touch, Choy." "Yes, sir." Nussbaum looks away and asks his pad to put a live touch through to the sig of Federal Emergency Notification.

PR

Conservative elitists rule much of modern religion, making it a branch of the Entertainment State. So sayeth the evangelistic moneychanger in the dataflow temple: Money can buy peace and salvation! Good works count for nothing against an ever-growing pile of status.

Conservatism is not about tradition and morality, hasn't been for many decades It is about money and the putative biological and spiritual superiority of the wealthy.

The honor and glory of the past, as always, are just symbols--and as such they can be (and some say should be) bought and sold on the open market.

Kiss of X, Alive Contains a Lie

Jonathan stands in the cleaning bubble as the purposeful billows of foam clear from the swanjet. The private charter airplane gleams white and gray and dull silver, with tiny red stripes on its forward vertical stabilizer. The plane is an ingenious deltoid with a central bulge of passenger compartment smoothly curving to razor wing tips. Along the upper and lower wing surfaces, tens of thousands of tiny nano-controlled bumps hint at its radical design. The bumps can form tiny vanes or dips in the wing's surface to control the coefficient of friction of air passing over and under the wing, adjusting the lift on each wing without ailerons. The single low vertical stabilizer is shoved forward nearly to the nose, rising from the pilot's compartment, just behind the windscreen, the leading edge curving back and then sharply forward. It gives these aircraft their characteristic shape and name: swans. Swans came into general service

/ S L A N T 225

For the time being, Jonathan is alone in the bubble. He's waiting for Marcus to return with their fellow passengers. He looks up through the membrane at the nacreous blue sky. A tingling sense of suspension and newness is the limit of his emotions today. He is present but not quite accounted for, he thinks.

The cleaning foam has retreated to its holding compartment, where it will digest or dispose of the dirt removed from the aircraft.

For an instant, Jonathan feels a giddy vertigo. He thinks he will tip over and drift away; the light is so uniform, the gray smooth cement of the airfield beneath the bubble so little different in color from the skyglow, he seems to float free with the swan in a pearly gray-out.

Jonathan sharply pinches the back of his hand with his well-manicured nails. There is nothing giddy or laughable about his present situation. For whatever reason he has put himself in league with some deadly serious men and he does not doubt--not any more, at least--the radical shape of their dedication and their seriousness. He still knows almost nothing about what is happening,

what the group plans, but he's no innocent in the ways of high-powered men. From here on, he must be very careful. "Jonathan!"

It's Marcus. Jonathan turns and sees his mentor standing with three others, two men and a woman. He recognizes Jamal Cadey with his confident smile. The other man is about five feet ten inches tall, wispy blond-haired, with a distracted look in his pale blue eyes. The woman is as tall as Jonathan, with jet black hair cut neatly to medium length. Her face is sternly attractive, hollow below jutting cheeks but with wide, discerning green eyes. She looks at Jonathan without really seeing him--for now.

They walk forward and Marcus holds up his pad. The swan's door silently slides up and over and steps descend. "It's all automatic," Marcus says. "I prefer live pilots, but mine's on vacation today."

They board the swan, the woman first, and seat themselves in the passenger cabin. Each of the six swivel couches is attached to the interior and airframe at three points, two thick struts mounted in the floor and a brace going through the wall.

The cockpit is closed off, but a broad window shows the view through the windscreen. Jonathan peeks through the panel as he follows Cadey and the wispy blond fellow. There is one seat in the cockpit, mounted to starboard; the dark blue casing for an INDA occupies the right position. The door swings up and forward and hisses shut behind Marcus.

"Comfort," Marcus observes, deadpan, stooping in the middle of the cabin. "We're one hour from Moscow ... Moscow, Idaho," he adds with no smile. Marcus seems out of temper. Jonathan wonders if he has quarreled with Beate.

"My name's Burdick, Alfred Burdick," the wispy man says to Jonathan as they sit across from each other. Jonathan shakes hands and introduces himself.

The woman sits forward of Burdick, across from Marcus. "Calhoun," she

26 G I E G B E A

Jonathan smiles. The engines are starting, pulsing with increasing frequency until they reach a high purr. "Hydrogen MHD pulsed flow," Marcus says with the aplomb of a hobbyist. He stands up before the seat can belt him in and braces against the creamy leather-like surface of the ceiling. "Real overkill for this baby, but smooth and fast. Should be completely quiet once we reach altitude. Countersound. Lovely stuff. Lovely." "I don't like it too quiet," Calhoun says. "These are the safest aircraft ever designed," Marcus says. "No moving parts. Or rather, all moving . . . just very small." "Swallowed by a giant super-bird," Burdick adds, his eye on Calhoun, as if hoping to amuse her. Calhoun smiles politely. "Please be seated," the INDA's voice instructs Marcus. "We will be on the taxiway in a few minutes." "Right," Marcus says, and sits. His seat belts him in. He grimaces at the constraint. This is the first time Jonathan has seen Marcus nervous. Strangely, Jonathan is calm. The swan begins to move. Through a wide, low port, he sees a cinematic slice of the airport, looking east toward the glinting curves of the residence towers of the southern Corridor. On the next runway over, a massive old black and emerald skip-ram squats like a long low-slung beetle. As their swan finishes its taxi and waits, the skip-ram grumbles forward, heavy with kerosene and just enough hydrogen peroxide to carry it to twenty thousand feet, where it will receive a full tanker-load of oxidizer sufficient to carry it into orbit; old technology, but still effective. Cadey pokes Jonathan's shoulder. Jonathan looks back at him. "Wait'Il you see Omphalos," Cadey enthuses. "You have no idea." I Jonathan smiles politely and hopes he doesn't seem too distant, too unenthusiastic. It's their turn. The swanjet accelerates quickly and smoothly to one hundred and ten miles per hour and lifts free, immediately veering east. For a moment, the entire surface of the starboard wing streams thin gray vapor. The vapor clears and he sees a fuzz of little fiexfuller vanes directing airflow. They climb quickly to forty thousand feet. The swan's wings flatten and grow wider. Their speed increases to seven hundred knots. They should cross the state of Washington in no time. Moscow, Idaho, is right over the border. Marcus takes it upon himself to serve refreshments. He hands glasses of white French Bordeaux to the passengers. Their chairs swivel to provide better personal sightlines. Jonathan looks across the cabin at Darlene Calhoun. "Time for a little getting acquainted," Marcus says. "Our newest member is Jonathan. Jonathan has a great pedigree and a number of skills we'll find necessary once we cross over." That phrase--cross over--almost makes Jonathan wince. It sounds so much

/ SLANT 227

"Darlene is from New York City," Marcus continues. "She's come out to represent about a thousand members back east. Wants to see the latest developments, of which there have been a fair number.., a very fair number. Not all of Darlene's group are fully in the know--contingent investors as it were, placing their trust and cash in our venture. But some of them simply can't afford to know everything. Darlene's tough and fair. It's representatives like her that make this whole thing possible." "A most peculiar organization," says wispy-haired Burdick. "Indeed," Marcus says. "Jonathan has been given a chance at a full membership because of a most unfortunate death." "Crest," Burdick says. Marcus gives him a quick glance, cool and neutral, but Jonathan knows how to interpret that expression. "Yes," Marcus says after what might be a moment of respectful silence. "Mr. Crest. I believe, based on the evidence, that Jonathan will be a much more effective member, and more discreet as well." "Crest invested over a billion, didn't he?" Burdick continues, and this time Marcus is openly irritated. "We do not need everyone's level of participation marked off on the wall of the barn," Marcus says. "Sorry," Burdick says. Calhoun touches Burdick's arm and gives him a faint nod. Burdick gets the hint and falls silent, but maintains his steady smile, as a defense. Cadey leans forward. "There is so much to be done. When we see real accomplishment, it is difficult not to get a little excited." "What's your expertise, Mr. Bristow?" Calhoun asks Jonathan. "I work in Nutrim management--design and management," he says. "Then you'll know how to feed our little slaves, won't you?" Calhoun asks. Marcus says, "Jonathan still doesn't have the wider picture. I hope to introduce him to the big topics gradually, so no showing off or revealing things ahead of time. There is a lot to absorb." "Indeed," Cadey says. "It took me months to absorb what I know . . . The startling personal implications. As well as the overall picture." Jonathan can still manage to feel a knot of indignation. It is weak but present. "I think I should be told as much as I need to know, as soon as possible. I'm not into any Count of Monte Cristo skullduggery." Marcus swivels his seat back and forth for a moment, watching him. He leans forward, hooks two pointing fingers together, and says to Jonathan, "You know it's all falling apart anyway. The whole carefully balanced financial system. The datafiow culture. We live in a nation of sheep. Take away the farmers and they all die. Well, most of the farmers have become sheep themselves. Somebody has to last out the collapse. Our group figures we have fifteen years at most before we hand over all of our important functions to

28 G G

You've seen the figures--half of all American citizens think the Yox is more real and more satisfying than life. Christ. Half!" "Not the people I know," Jonathan says gently, not to appear too contradictory. "No. Certain social clusters.., agree with our position. They deserve something better than being marginalized by dataflow. Nowadays, if you aren't always on the Yox, you can't hold up your end of a conversation." "True enough," Darlene Calhoun says. "Amen," adds Jamal Cadey. "Husbands and wives link up to a sex Yox and that's as intimate as they get," Burdick says. "Women don't give birth, they let machines do it for them," Marcus says distastefully. "It is less painful," Jonathan says. "Pain is part of the glory of life," Darlene Calhoun says sternly, a true frontier woman with her high cheekbones and chiseled nose and trim, expensive outfit. "Have you--" Jonathan starts to ask her a question, but Marcus interrupts. "I'm proud to say I was on the ground floor. The most dedicated and visionary of us began to lay down the rules and start the financial foundations. Then we began to build." "Shelters against the ice age," Cadey says. His face beads with enthusiasm. The emotion finally connects. Jonathan feels some excitement. Escape. How nice it would be to simply start over again. "The list of contributors is secret. Depending on the construction schedule and our place on the rosters, we begin to move into the Omphaloses sometime to the next five years, over a five-year period," Marcus says. "We use them to re as much raw material and general-purpose nano as we need. Money will mean nothing. We store enough precious metals to begin a new, direct, clean economy. No symbolism. No paper or datafiow digits... Specie. Real. Solid "The working class will chew itself to death when its beloved datafiow stops. We can't save them--they're addicted. They've been doomed for sixty years now--all the workers whose jobs can be done by machines. And with nano--well, as I said, labor and even the lower-level lobe-sods, the accountants and stockbrokers and such, are doomed. They've become slack flesh, and they're the source of the cancer that eats at our society. The old tainted flesh hanging on the shoulders of the strong, the young, the new. And when it's all done with, no more separation between elites and laborers. There will only be the intellectual and spiritual masters." "Amen," Cadey says, nodding vigorously. "No more teeming maggots," Darlene Calhoun says. Jonathan is giddy with repressed and contradictory emotion. He does not know whether to laugh or cry, to be glad he is here or dismayed.